


low pressure system

by robokittens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Mostly) Happy Ending, Emoticon Abuse, Established Relationship, Fighting and making up, Infidelity, Lots of Phone Conversations, M/M, Panic Attacks, canon-typical alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm sorry," Jack says again. He covers his face with the hand that isn't holding the phone, closes his eyes. He can feel his own harsh breath reflect against his palm. He takes a deep breath, then another. Bittle doesn't deserve his anger. Deserves so much better. "I'm sorry. I love you."</p>
<p>"It's not that easy, Jack," Bittle says, voice tight, like Jack doesn't know that.</p>
<p>Nothing gets to be easy. Not for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	low pressure system

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to seducerhymeswithdeduce for the lookover, onceuponamoon for the invaluable breaking bad assistance, and psocoptera for the stellar (and patient!) beta! thank you to you for reading this.

— 

 

Jack has Bittle crowded up against the island in the kitchen, one hand on Bittle's shoulder and the other one gripping the counter edge. It's sharp against his hand, and must be hurting Bittle where it presses into his back, but Jack's not hearing any complaints. 

He licks up Bittle's neck, blows on the damp skin just to see him shiver, bites down. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough that Bittle can feel it. Bittle's keeping up a steady stream of "Jack, Jack, Jack" and "oh, oh, _oh_."

Jack lets go of Bittle's shoulder. He sinks to his knees.

" _Jack_ ," Bittle breathes, and Jack looks up at him, smiles so hard he can feel his teeth grinding together.

He puts his hand on Bittle's waist instead, just up under his t-shirt, squeezes a little. His other hand unfastens Bittle's shorts. He doesn't bother pulling them down, barely bothers with Bittle's underwear, just pulls his dick out through the slit in his boxers and licks wetly across the head of it. Bittle breathes out his name again.

Bittle's only half-hard when Jack gets his mouth on him, but he fills out quickly, grows bigger and harder in Jack's mouth. It's a good feeling. Jack likes it: likes knowing he can do this, give Bittle this. Likes the tangible evidence that he's good at it. Likes the feeling of dick in his mouth, a heavy weight on his tongue.

He squeezes Bittle's waist again. He wraps his other hand loosely around Bittle's dick and moves his mouth up and down to meet it; deepthroating makes Bittle come too quickly.

"Oh God," Bittle says, and Jack slows down. His tongue flicks over Bittle's slit. He pulls off until only the head of Bittle's dick is in his mouth and sucks, a low pressure, and Bittle keens.

"Jack," Bittle says, "Baby, I'm gonna come."

Jack makes an affirmative noise around Bittle's dick and takes more of Bittle in his mouth, almost all the way. His nose presses against Bittle's boxers. Bittle comes, spurting thick and hot down Jack's throat. Jack pulls off, licks his lips.

He keeps his hand on Bittle's waist as he stands up. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to his mouth.

"Gotta get to the rink," he says. "Lock up when you leave, eh?"

"I was goin' to make lunch," Bittle says, breathless.

"Gotta get to the rink," Jack says again. He drops a kiss to the top of Bittle's head and walks toward the door, grabbing his hockey bag from the foyer as he walks out the door.

 

—

 

ERB: Miss you (╯︵╰,) [26 minutes ago]  
ERB: Call me when you can! [22 minutes ago]  
ERB: Nothing urgent!! Just wanna talk to you ♥ [22 minutes ago]  
ERB: Jaaaaaack [6 minutes ago]

 

—

 

"Hey," Jack says. "Sorry I had to call you back. I needed both hands to carry groceries in."

"That's just fine," Bitty says, voice bright through the phone. "I'm proud of you for gettin' real groceries."

"Ha ha," Jack grumbles. He puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the counter. "I cook. You know I cook."

Bittle coughs politely. Jack rolls his eyes, even though he knows Bittle can't see.

"I'm cooking _right now_ ," he says. He pulls the ground beef out of the fridge and dumps it into the saucepan, grabs an onion and puts the cutting board right next to the phone so Bittle can hear him chopping. Bittle might not count pasta sauce as cooking, per se, but he doesn't say anything while Jack works.

Instead, he sings; Jack assumes it's Beyonce, because that's usually a safe bet. Bittle actually has a pretty nice voice. He couldn't do it professionally — well, maybe he could; Jack's heard some singers with really bad voices — but over the phone it's a nice accompaniment to the sound of dicing tomatoes.

"When can you come back down to Samwell?"

Jack starts; he'd half-forgotten Bittle was on the other end of the line.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "We're on the road next week, and then we've got three at home. I might be able to come down on one of our off days, but I can't make any promises."

"Probably you can't spend the night, either," Bittle says sadly. Jack wants to drive there right now, press kisses all over his face. Hold him close until he stops being sad.

"Probably not," he says.

 

— 

 

"Hey, Z-Mann," Branzy says, slinging an arm loosely around Jack's shoulder. Jack closes out of the messaging app. "You comin' out tonight, or your girl got you staying in?"

Jack stiffens. He takes a breath, forces himself to relax. Forces himself to smile, too, almost like he means it. "Oh, no," he says, and laughs. "I'm not — I don't have a girl." He tucks his phone in his pocket.

Branzy laughs. "She's got you texting a whole fuck of a lot for not being your girl. Get that on lock, bro."

Jack laughs, too. It almost doesn't sound forced to his ears. "Working on it," he says, and Branzy moves the arm on his shoulder, slaps him on the back.

"Good for you," he says. "Good for you. I'll text you the address, yeah? Go home and get dressed."

 

—

 

— Sorry. Can't text at the rink anymore. Guys are starting to ask questions. [2 minutes ago]  
ERB: ): [Just Now]

 

—

 

"I'm sorry," Jack says into the phone. "I'm just tired."

He is tired, but he doesn't feel sorry, and he probably doesn't sound sorry either.

"Well," Bittle snips, "you can just go to bed and we can talk this out some other time. Or you could take some time out of your precious nappin' schedule for me, which is the _entire damn problem_."

"I spend _plenty_ of time on you!" It's the wrong thing to say, he knows it the second he says it, but he's tired and he doesn't — he cares. He cares about Bittle, cares about him so much. But.

Bittle snorts. "Oh do you now? When was the last time we saw each other, Mr. Zimmermann? When was the last time we went on a _date_?"

"I'm sorry," Jack says again. He covers his face with the hand that isn't holding the phone, closes his eyes. He can feel his own harsh breath reflect against his palm. He takes a deep breath, then another. Bittle doesn't deserve his anger. Deserves so much better. "I'm sorry. I love you."

"It's not that easy, Jack," Bittle says, voice tight, like Jack doesn't know that.

Nothing gets to be easy. Not for him.

 

—

 

Jack drinks when he's out with the team. Not a lot. But enough that they don't give him sympathetic, knowing glances. 

"Want another?" Simmer asks, wiggling his empty beer bottle at Jack. Jack looks down at his own bottle, still half-full, and shrugs. 

"Good for now," he says. Simmer raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. He heads to the kitchen, presumably to raid Lim's fridge.

Branzy drops himself on the couch next to Jack with a grunt. "How's it hangin', Z-Mann?"

Branzy's the only one who calls him that. Nicknames don't stick to Jack.

"To the left," Jack replies after a moment, and holds his beer bottle up; Branzy knocks his own against it and laughs.

"See," Branzy says, and relaxes into the couch, legs wide and an arm across the back of it. He's long-limbed; his hand is almost to where Jack is sitting. "Some guys, they say you're not funny. But you're just quiet, eh?"

"I'm _not_ funny," Jack protests, and Branzy laughs again.

"Sure you're not, Z. Sure." He says Z like _zee_. Jack's been in America for years, and it still always takes him a second to recognize his own initial.

Simmer walks back in, two bottles in his hands. He leans over Branzy to hand one to Jack, who rolls his eyes and sets it on the end table. "Gee, thanks," he says dryly. Branzy scoots over so there's room for Simmer on the couch; his knee knocks against Jack's.

"What the fuck are you assholes watching?" Simmer asks, and grabs the remote off the coffee table before either of them can reply. He starts flipping through channels, so fast Jack has no idea how he's even seeing what's on them.

"What the fuck _were_ we watching?" Jack asks. The TV had just been background noise. Branzy doesn't answer, just laughs loudly and slouches further down onto the couch. His knee presses against Jack's. Jack straightens up.

 

— 

 

"Samwell is so pretty," Jack says, like he's never seen it before. Sometimes it's like he hasn't: it's barely been a year and it almost feels, some days, like he never went to college. He's in the NHL. A history degree was never his dream.

Bittle nods enthusiastically and links their fingers together for a moment before letting go. His pinky trails over Jack's palm. This stretch of pathway along the Pond is totally deserted, but Jack feels a tiny, bright flare of anxiety anyway.

"Do you miss it?" Bittle asks, and Jack laughs.

"Miss _college_?"

Bittle giggles. "Well, when you put it like _that_."

"I miss the Haus," Jack says honestly. "I miss you guys. I miss … I miss Faber, sometimes." It's the rink where I got hockey back, he doesn't say.

Bitty nudges him, a press of shoulder to bicep. "Speakin' of the Haus." His voice is low, flirty. "Wanna go back there?"

Jack wants to lean down and brush a kiss over his lips, wants to hold his hand. He presses a hand to the small of Bittle's back, just for a second, light and almost casual. "Sure." Bittle grins up at him.

They cut past Founder's and take the south bridge, wander through River Quad and head up that way. The whole time they're just too close, but Jack can't bring himself to move away; he tugs his baseball cap (Falconers blue, no logo) down low instead. Occasionally the backs of their hands brush, and it sends a thrill through Jack every time.

The second they're inside the Haus, Bittle presses him up against the door and kisses him, heedless of who might be there. When Jack opens his eyes, though, he doesn't see anyone. There's noise coming from the kitchen — which strikes him as weird, since Bittle is obviously not in there.

"Oh, hey." Dex pokes his head out of the kitchen. "Bitty, I — Jack!"

"What's goin' on?" Bittle's instantly concerned, heading for his kitchen. Jack trails after him, listens to the two of them debate proper spice application, or something. He leans against the wall, arms crossed. 

Bittle starts rolling up his sleeves, and he looks up guiltily when Jack says his name. 

"Bittle. Didn't you say there was something you wanted to show me upstairs?"

It's maybe not the best excuse he could have come up with. Dex looks supremely unimpressed. Bittle laughs, still a little bit guiltily. "Yeah, let's head up now. Dex, this is seemin' real good so far." He has to lean up to ruffle Dex's hair.

"Dex knows, doesn't he?" he asks, once they're safely in Bittle's room with the door locked.

Bittle raises an eyebrow at him. It's the same face he makes when Jack doesn't know who Katy Terry or whoever is. "Sweetheart," he says. "Lots of people know. I didn't tell anyone! But you're not … we're not exactly _subtle_."

"I'm subtle!"

Bittle keeps making that face. Jack tries to stop that flare of anxiety from earlier coming back, but it's burning up inside him anyway. He can feel his breath start to come short.

"Sweetheart," Bittle says again. It's sweeter, the way he says it this time. He puts a hand on Jack's forearm, leaves it there for a second before grabbing Jack's hand instead. He pulls him toward the bed and sits him gently on the end of it. "Just our friends, I promise. No one knows who shouldn't kn—"

"No one should know!" Jack bursts out. He can feel his own breath ragged in his chest. It _hurts_. Bittle is still holding his hand.

Bittle doesn't say anything. Jack takes one deep breath, then another. Another.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I don't — that's not fair. To you. I know that."

Bittle sits down next to him, finally, and tips his head onto Jack's shoulder. "Let's not have this fight again," he says quietly. "I want to be with you, and that's that. Whatever I've got to do — well, that's what I've got to do."

_I love you_ , Jack thinks, but the words catch in his throat. He turns instead, rests two fingers under Bittle's chin and tips his head up, brushing his lips across Bittle's like he'd wanted to earlier. Bittle's mouth opens easily under his.

"I love you," Jack says, whispered into the corner of Bittle's mouth.

"Come to bed with me," Bittle says, and Jack nods. He slides his hands under Bittle's shirt, up his sides, and Bittle shivers.

"I love you," Jack says again, and Bittle smiles.

 

—

 

It was a hard fucking night. They lost it in the last minutes, the Schooners coming from behind with two desperate goals and snatching the game right out from under them. The locker room is quiet, subdued; this early in the season there aren't too many reporters milling about looking for quotes, and they're left pretty much alone.

"Ok." Branzy breaks the silence. "Who's gonna go drink this one off with me?"

Lim laughs, a little bitter. "You're on your own, kiddo."

It becomes rapidly clear that no one wants to go explore Seattle; their hotel has a perfectly good bar, not to mention room service, so there's really no call to go out. But Branzy is 19 and still energetic after a punishing game, and soon enough he's leaning all up in Jack's space.

"Z," he whines, drawing it out: _Zeeeee_. "Z-Mann. C'mon, come out with me. Seattle's fucking awesome; we can find somewhere cool to hang out."

Seattle _seems_ awesome, Jack has to admit. They don't really have enough time for sightseeing, which is too bad. Shitty has family near here and told Jack about a few family vacations; apparently, the city is nice enough that he was willing to tolerate his family to come here.

If he'd had any suggestions for Seattle bars he hadn't offered them, which is too bad. Could have come in handy.

Jack sighs. "Ok, Branz," he says. "You find somewhere you can get in, and I'll come babysit your ass." He ruffles Branzy's damp hair, and Branzy squawks and jumps away. 

It's weird, sometimes, how natural hanging out with Branzy feels. He's not … Jack's not very good at making friends. He's got Shitty, he's got Lardo — he still talks to both of them pretty regularly. He's got Bittle. He doesn't need …

But Branzy's his friend. Maybe his best friend on the team. And if he and his fake ID want to go grab a beer, then sure. Jack'll go with him. And someday Jack will make friends with actual adults.

 

— 

 

ERB: Hi! (๑ˇεˇ๑) [9 minutes ago]  
— Hi ☺ [2 minutes ago]  
ERB: Jack Zimmermann is that an emoji?! I am so proud :') [2 minutes ago]  
— What's that one? Does it have a nose [2 minutes ago]  
ERB: ... Oh sweetie. [Just Now]

 

— 

 

"You're always going to be second to hockey," he snaps, "and if you can't understand that, this might not work."

Bittle hangs up on him.

 

— 

 

Branzy whistles appreciatively as he steps through the door.

Jack doesn't have people over very often, especially people who aren't Bittle or his parents. He has a very well-stocked kitchen and an overstuffed chair that has held more coats than people and a DVD collection Shitty has characterized as "fuckin' tragic," but whatever. It's not Jack's fault if people don't appreciate his taste.

But it's a pretty nice condo, he can acknowledge that. He picked it for a reason.

The fridge is mostly full of leftovers he can microwave later; he can probably scrounge something up if they end up staying here long enough to eat. There's a shelf full of Gatorades and seltzer water, and he offers them to Branzy, who looks surprised.

"You don't have any —" he starts, and then stops. Pauses. "Regular water?"

Jack would like to think Branzy's too young to have heard anything about him, but stories about Zimmermann the Fuckup are still floating around the league. Besides, he would have been 12 the year Jack wasn't drafted; that's old enough that he was probably paying attention. Jack's never asked, and he doesn't intend to.

He doesn't keep beer around the house.

"Uh," he says. "Not bottled. I can get you some from the tap though; I've got a Brita."

"Cool!" Branzy says, with more enthusiasm than water deserves.

Jack pulls a glass from a high cabinet, smiling as he pictures Bittle stretching up to reach it, and fills it with water. He hands it to Branzy and opens the fridge again, grabbing himself a seltzer.

"So …" Jack coughs awkwardly, and casts his gaze desperately around his own apartment. "Sorry, I'm an awful host. My — friends give me shit for it all the time."

"No!" Branzy says, too quickly. "No, it's cool. Wanna just watch TV?"

They settle on Breaking Bad, because Branzy's somehow never seen it — heresy, in Jack's opinion — and because it's one of the few things Jack owns that aren't WWII documentaries ("boring," according to most of his friends) or classic rock concert recordings ("weird and boring").

Walt's wife is lecturing Jesse on screen when Branzy gets up to go to the bathroom. Jack pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text to Bittle: "Miss you," he types, and then quickly adds ":(" in hopes that the emoticon will make Bittle smile.

He's just slipping his phone back in his pocket when Branzy flings himself back onto the sofa. His knee bumps up against Jack's; it's a pretty big sofa, but the middle is technically closer to the TV. Jack gets the impulse, especially when Jesse is hauling a body into a bathtub. And Branzy's a sprawler.

"Dude," Branzy says, "Z. Thanks for having me over. Like — it means a lot, dude, for serious." He sits up abruptly, and Jack turns to look at him. "I'm just super glad we're friends. You're really — I mean, you're great for the team, but you're really _cool_."

"Um," Jack says, startled. That's not usually a word people use for him. "Thank you? I mean, shit —" He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. "I'm glad we're friends, too." 

He _is_. Almost all the guys on the team are really cool with him; there are a few who can't forget he is (was?) a prodigy, and a few who still think he's a risk the Falconers can't afford to take, but overall everyone is … good. But he's definitely gotten close to Branzy. As close as he'll let himself get.

"Hey, Jack?"

And he's so startled by Branzy calling him Jack — Branzy _never_ calls him Jack; he's so determined to make fucking "Z-Mann" stick — that he doesn't even respond, doesn't even notice Branzy moving closer, doesn't feel Branzy's hand on his face until it's too late, until Branzy's breath is hot across his lips, until Branzy's lips are pressed against his own. Until he kisses back.

"Oh thank god," Branzy mumbles against Jack's lips, and Jack lets out a breathy laugh, threads his fingers through the hairs at Branzy's nape and pulls him in closer.

They stay like that for a while, mouths moving against each other, until Branzy shifts. He climbs into Jack's lap and Jack stops. Puts a hand on Branzy's chest and pushes him back.

"Branz," he says quietly. "I — we can't."

Branzy stands up abruptly, stumbling out of Jack's lap. "No," he says. "Of course not. Shit, I — fuck. Fuck. I'm sorry."

He's across the room almost before Jack has a chance to react, across the condo and at the door by the time Jack's stood up. He's bent over putting his shoes on when Jack catches up with him.

"Branzy," he says, still quiet. "I'm sorry. It's just —"

"No, no," Branzy says. "I get it." He runs his arm roughly across his face; Jack hopes he's not crying. "I'm just — I'll see you tomorrow."

Right. Practice. 

Jack shuts the door behind him and slumps against it. He buries his head in his hands.

 

—

 

She'd called him in for official business, but they've just been shooting the shit for the last few minutes. He's all but got his feet kicked up on George's desk. 

"You were up at Samwell recently, right?" she asks, and he nods.

"I still go up there … when I can. Half my friends are there," he says. 

She gives him a pointed look. "And where are the other half? Here? Don't think I don't have my eye on your social life, young man."

Jack doesn't even bother to point out that she's not _that_ much older than him. There's no stopping George when she decides she wants to be his mom, any more than he can stop it when she's being his boss. Or when she's being his friend.

"I have friends," he protests weakly. "The team —"

"Go out without you more nights than not." 

He's never felt chastised for _not_ going out and drinking. Not since his freshman year, anyway.

"Sometimes I don't feel like going out. I hang out when we're just at someone's place!" he protests. "And Branzy came over the other day. He's my friend." He tries not to wince. He hopes George doesn't notice. He hopes George hasn't noticed how awkward Branzy has been around him this past week.

"That's good," George says, and smiles. "I'm glad you two are getting along. He looks up to you a lot, you know; I think you'd be a good mentor for him." 

Jack wonders how much she knows.

His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket quickly, intending to shut it off, until he sees who's calling.

He looks up at George desperately. "It's — it's Bittle. I'm so sorry. Can I —"

She laughs, and waves a hand at him. "Go, go. Tell him I say hi!"

"Hey," he says into the phone, and mouths _Thank you_ at George as he's walking out of her office.

"Hey, sweetheart," Bittle says. "Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound out of breath."

"No, no," Jack says. "I was just talking to George. I'm heading home now."

"George!" Bittle says brightly. "You tell her hi from me."

Jack pauses, halfway down the hall, and turns around; he opens the door to George's office. "Bittle says hi!" he calls, and he can hear her laughing as he shuts the door again. "She says hi back," he says, and makes his way out of the building.

As Jack drives home, Bittle's cheerfully prattling on about some new recipe he's trying out to bring to a study group — he's got to charm them, apparently, because he's not that good at Statistics and he's going to need the help.

"I'm sure you'll do great all by yourself," he says honestly. "But muffin bribery will probably help."

He can hear Bittle's smile through the phone. "That's what I thought!"

"I love you," Jack says. Bittle's still talking about muffins. He stops.

"I'm still mad at you, you know," he says. 

Jack flinches. Bittle is — there's no way he could know that — The fight. The dumb fight they had last week. "I deserve that," he says. "I was stupid."

"You _are_ stupid," Bittle says, but he sounds fond. "I miss your stupid face."

"You just miss my ass," Jack says. He pulls carefully into his parking spot.

"I also miss your ass," Bittle agrees. He laughs. "I miss all of you. Even the stupid, shitty parts."

"I don't deserve you," Jack says. He means it.

 

— 

 

Bittle's in Providence. Or he will be: he's coming to the game tonight. He might make it into town in time for Jack's pre-game nap, which would be wonderful; he can't think of anything better than curling up around Bittle and falling asleep, then waking up to go play a game. Bittle's definitely staying the night; he can curl up around him then.

He wants to fall asleep with Bittle every night. Jesus. It hits him sometimes — he wants to spend so much time with Bittle. Maybe the rest of his life.

It's not … not a good thing, not like it should be. He knows he's not as good for Bittle as Bittle is for him. He knows that Bittle deserves more. He deserves someone who can love him more than anything else, deserves someone who can say "I love you" out loud where people could hear it. Deserves more than a life in the closet. Deserves someone who wouldn't — who wouldn't kiss — 

He's backed up against his bedroom wall before he knows it, clutching his chest. He forces himself to slow his breathing down, but it's not very effective; for every two or three deep, slow breaths, there's one big shaky gasp. His vision is starting to blur.

He makes his way into the en suite and sits down on the lid of the toilet. He's gonna get up any second now and take a drink of water, he really is. He breathes: in, out. In, out.

In the back of the medicine cabinet, there's a bottle. In the front of the medicine cabinet, there's a lot of bottles: antidepressants, vitamins, Advil. But shoved in the back there's a bottle with a handful of Xanax, as many as he's allowed to be prescribed at one time, at the lowest therapeutic dose.

He doesn't take them. They're for just in case.

This might be in case. It's really stupid, he knows that; he has a game tonight. He can't afford to be anything less than attentive, anything other than all there. He can't risk any side-effects.

But … he won't do the team much good crying on the bench either. He's not even sure when he'd started crying.

He shoves aside toothpaste and q-tips and a handful of cough drops. The orange plastic feels insubstantial in his hands. He shakes two pills out, and carefully puts one of them back and re-caps the bottle. He puts the pill on his tongue, and slows his breathing long enough to swallow it.

He crawls into bed and grabs his phone. He sets an alarm, turns up the volume. He opens up his texts.

— Hey let me know when you get here. I'll call you an uber from the train. [Just Now]

He closes his eyes.

 

— 

 

— Stop sending me pictures of food I can't eat. [2 minutes ago]  
ERB: In the mail, baby (σ･з･)σ [1 minute ago]  
— You're too good to me. [1 minute ago]  
— What does that face even mean? [Just now]  
ERB: (๑♡3♡๑) [Just now]  
ERB: ( *¯ ³¯*)♡ [Just now]  
ERB: (◦˘ З(◦’ںˉ◦)♡ [Just now]

 

— 

 

"Hey Branz, wanna grab a beer?" It's a fight to keep his tone casual.

It's even more of a fight to keep his face neutral when Branzy looks over at him. He looks … hopeful? Yeah, Jack's pretty sure that's it. They look nothing alike, but for one second Branzy looks so much like Bittle — his open, upturned face; the slightly dropped jaw and the wide, wide eyes — looks so much like Bittle did right when Jack told him he loved him for the first time.

He doesn't turn away, but it's close.

He reaches over and ruffles Branzy's hair. It's the most physical they've been in weeks. "Meet you at that place you like in a couple hours?"

"That place I like," Branzy echoes mockingly. But he's smiling again, smiling at Jack. Christ, Jack has missed him — missed his best friend here. He wants him back. Maybe after tonight … maybe.

Jack goes home. He brushes his teeth, he combs his hair, he changes into clean jeans and a sweater. He hopes he doesn't look like he's going on a date.

They meet up at the bar by Branzy's house that Jack can never remember the name of. It's kind of dark and kind of loud, and Jack's ordered a beer for himself and a Jack and Coke for Branzy by the time Branzy finally shows up.

"Three blocks away and you're still late." Jack lets himself sound a little bitchy, but he's smiling, and Branzy smiles back.

"Hey," he says, like Jack hadn't said anything at all. "You got me a drink?" He sounds surprised when Jack slides the glass over to him.

Jack shrugs. "I figure I owe you."

"Owe me …?" Branzy sits down across from Jack at the high table, and for just a second Jack holds his breath, waiting for Branzy to kick him under the table. He used to do it all the time — Jack had taken it for Branzy being a little shit, but maybe … maybe.

The moment passes. Branzy keeps his feet to himself. Jack drinks his beer.

"Look," Jack says. "It's not — it's really _not_ you."

Branzy laughs, a little bitter.

"You're … if things were different …" Jack stumbles over his words, surprises himself by saying them. But it's true. Branzy's the only person he's really connected with here, and if it weren't … if it weren't for _Bittle_. He knows he's smiling, can't help it. 

"But?" Branzy prompts.

Jack takes a deep breath. "But … I'm seeing someone."

The look on Branzy's face is pure shock. "You're …" He trails off. " _You_? No offense but …"

Jack laughs, loud and genuine, which doesn't make Branzy look any less surprised.

"I'm in love," he says finally, quietly. "I like you, Branz. I do. If things really were different … but they're not. And I love him."

Branzy picks his drink up and drains it. Jack can see the line of his throat moving. It's a nice sight, now that he's looking. 

"Well fuck," Branzy says, setting his glass back down. "Can't say I saw that one coming."

"There it is," Jack says. He thinks about Bittle again, and smiles.

 

— 

 

"Everythin' ok, sweetheart? You sound distracted."

Jack doesn't reply for a moment. He shifts the phone to his other ear. "No," he says finally. "I mean, yeah, everything's ok. I guess I am distracted." He laughs a little, hoping it doesn't sound as awkward as it feels.

Bittle tsks. "You tell me if there's anythin' I can do, you hear? Just because I can't make it down this weekend doesn't mean I can't make some pie appear there."

Jack's laughter is more genuine this time. Bittle always manages to pull it out of him.

"You make me happy," he says abruptly. He opens the fridge and pulls out a Gatorade, cracks it open. Takes a sip while Bittle's talking.

Bittle chuckles. "Don't you start now, Jack Zimmermann. If you start bein' romantic I'll get to missin' you more than I can stand. Tell me what you've been up to lately. You doin' things? You happy without me?" His voice takes on a teasing edge, but Jack winces.

"Without you? Never." He sighs. "But I'm … doing ok. I am. I mean, we're winning games; what more can I ask for?"

"Six game streak," Bittle says proudly. "That leavin' you any time for a social life?"

Jack hums thoughtfully. "Went out for beers with Branzy the other night. But mostly it's been … practice. Games. Sleep. You know how it is."

"I have some idea," Bittle agrees. Jack can hear the smile in his voice. Jack can hear the genuine happiness, the absolute lack of suspicion, when Bittle says, "You're spendin' a lot of time with that Branzy lately, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Jack says after a moment. He sets the Gatorade down on the island, grips the edge of it. "Branz and I are getting pretty close. I don't know. It's not — he's not Shitty, but it's good to have a friend on the team."

"I'm happy for you, baby. It's good you're makin' friends. No one's gonna be Shitty, but some people are just irreplaceable. I reckon he's one of them."

" _You're_ one of them." It's almost too quick, his response, but Jack means it. There's no one that could replace Bittle. He knew that, never thought otherwise, but now … now he knows for sure.

"I told you to stop bein' a romantic!"

"I'll stop," he says, laughing, and settles himself on a stool. "Now, tell me about Samwell Men's Hockey. Don't leave anything out. Four game streak yourselves, eh?"

 

— 

 

He pins Bittle to the bed, his hands around Bittle's wrists, Bittle hard against him where their bodies press together. He leans in and presses a kiss to Bittle's throat, and Bittle tips his head back.

"You keep bitin' down," Bittle says, a hitch in his breath, "and you're gonna leave a — ah! — a mark. For all of. For all of Samwell to see."

"Maybe I want everyone to know you're mine," Jack says into Bittle's neck. Bittle shivers.

"Thought you didn't want anyone to know."

Jack licks at the spot he'd been biting. "Maybe I want everyone to know you're _someone_ 's."

Bittle's fingers drag down Jack's spine.

"Wanna?" Bittle murmurs, and Jack's fingers tighten on his wrists.

"You trying to stake a claim now?" Jack tries to tease, but his breath is coming short. Because — yeah, he wants Bittle to claim him. He lets go of Bittle's wrists and rolls over so they're lying next to each other on the bed. Bittle leans over and presses their lips together, and Jack moans into it. He makes a keening sound that should be embarrassing when Bittle moves away, but he's too far gone to care.

There's no reason for Bittle to be moving except to grab lube, but he's still surprised when Bittle moves to kneel between his legs, when two cold, slick fingers push against his entrance. He gasps.

"Deep breaths," Bittle says. He tucks his head into Jack's stomach as he strokes his fingers across Jack's hole, just teasing now. Jack can feel his smile. He breathes: in and out, in and out, and Bittle's fingers slowly press into him. In and out, in and out, and Jack relaxes into it. 

"C'mon," he urges, and Bittle takes pity on him, fucks Jack with his fingers until Jack's back is arching, until his deep breathing has gone ragged. His toes curl, catching on the sheets.

Bittle pulls his fingers out. "C' _mon_ ," Jack says again, impatient, and Bittle lines himself up.

"Some days," Jack says, and his back arches off the bed again as Bittle pushes into him. He gasps. Bittle grabs one of Jack's ankles and pushes his knee forward, toward his chest, and Jack doesn't say anything but " _oh_ " as Bittle presses in, pulls out, pushes back in. Jack hooks his other leg around Bittle and pulls him closer.

It's a minute later when Bittle echoes, "Some days?"

He punctuates it with a snap of his hips, and Jack groans. Bittle hits his prostate, and again, and there's no fucking way he's answering any questions anytime soon.

Afterward, Jack wraps himself around Bittle. Bittle spoons up comfortably into him, head tucked under Jack's chin, one arm behind himself to rest on Jack's hip. Jack leans over to kiss him on the cheek, then lays back down. Bittle squirms a little, readjusting in Jack's arms.

They're quiet. Jack can hear Bittle's breathing start to even out.

"Some days," he says softly, "I think, 'I should buy that boy a ring.'"

Bittle hums happily, too asleep to register anything more than the timbre of Jack's voice. He presses himself back into Jack, as if he could get closer. Jack tightens his arm around Bittle. He holds on.

 

—

**Author's Note:**

> i felt like i didn't write jack mean enough, and tried to fix that. so uh. welp. title from [the mountain goats](http://www.themountaingoats.net/lyrics/zopilote_lyr.html#alpha).


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